Someone, somewhere, once said that it only takes doing something three times for it to become a habit. I don’t know who this person is, or what their credentials are, or how valid their theory is, but that feels true. What I really want to know, though, is how many times of NOT doing something does it take to break a habit?
I’ve mentioned how I’m a Creature of Habit before, and some of those habits probably need to be re-evaluated. My habits are what keep me at home most nights, when I should be out meeting new people. (Or possibly even out with people I already know, but I’ll get into that in another post. Going out with the same people over and over again doesn’t really work out.) These habits are big ones, though. I think I need to start with something smaller.
And what better way to overcome my obsessive-compulsive tendencies than to take baby steps? (Hey, it worked in What About Bob?) So, today at lunch, I took one of my first baby steps towards breaking a habit. When I went to D’s, I did not order the teriyaki chicken bites with seasoned fries and a side of ranch dressing. (And yes, I always get it. They don’t even ask anymore. They just bring it out. I had to stop her from putting the order in today.) Instead, I told her to surprise me.
She did. She brought out some Texas-style salad that had grilled chicken in it. Now, I’m not opposed to salad, especially salads that have meat in them. This salad, however, tasted the way I would imagine a Carnival-worker tastes. Ok. No one said change would be easy. So I took another bite. Yeah… still covered in that Carnival-worker dressing, which left just a hint of Wide-Open-Ass aftertaste. Every neuron in my brain fired at once to tell me that this is EXACTLY why I always stick with the food I know I enjoy. (Even the neurons that are almost always thinking about having sex with Kate Beckinsale, specifically the versions from Underworld or Van Hellsing. Does that make me goth?)
The bartender saw it on my face, and asked if I wanted something else. (What would life be like if bartenders weren’t cool, I wonder?) In some insanity-driven stubborness, I waved her away and set about eating my Carnival-Worker and Wide-Open-Ass salad with grim determination.
The moral of the story here? I’ve proven that I will stand behind my decisions, but I should probably be in control of the decisions.
My first big decision: I’m not going to wait on anyone to decide, no matter how amazing I think they are.